One Good Thing About Birthdays
by E J Mulford
Summary: Sherlock detests birthdays. They're embarrassing, boring and a waste of his time - until, on his 40th, John changes his mind with one little present. Johnlock fluff. Post-Fall.


My first 'real' slash piece (nothing hardcore, hence the K+ rating, just some fluff) so I'm anxious as to how it turned out. Hope you enjoy!

xxxx

**One Good Thing About Birthdays**

Sherlock x John

Johnlock

_Happy Birthday Remy!_

xxxx

Sherlock detests birthdays.

They mean fake smiles and tolerating the presence of other people, not to mention the unwanted presents – really, how many useless items can one person need? And then there are all the unnecessary trimmings, the balloons and banners, cake and candles. All of it is irrelevant. The fact that he was born forty years ago today is also irrelevant. He has never understood why human beings insist on celebrating something so trivial – yes, you were born, just like every other person on the planet. _Well done_. Birthdays mean sitting here on the sofa sandwiched between Mrs Hudson and Molly, forcing a smile and pretending to be pleased with the landlady's gift – _a new deerstalker, thank you Mrs Hudson, my old one's getting a bit worn now_. Molly is a little better with that side of affairs; she gives him a new microscope, not quite up to par with his current one in terms of quality, also not worth the money he knows she paid for it. But it'll do, he supposes. It seems logical to have a spare in case of emergency. Mycroft stops by, smiling smugly through the gift-unwrapping ceremony as his younger sibling tries to put on a convincing act. He stays for cake and a brandy and then excuses himself on the grounds of 'attending to government business'. Sherlock doesn't plan to ever wear the expensive cashmere scarf that is Mycroft's gift. Lestrade buys him a copy of _The Greatest Unsolved Crimes of the 20th Century_, which temporarily piques his interest. No doubt he'll manage to deduce the answers within minutes, but it may keep him occupied for a little while. He thanks the Detective Inspector and makes a mental note not to tell him, as he stands in the kitchen talking football with John, that his wife has dumped the PE teacher in favour of the postman.

And the doctor himself? John busies himself with putting up decorations, leading everyone else in the customary 'Happy Birthday' song and serving cake. He asks after Molly's boyfriend – Sherlock deleted his name, there'll be a new one in a month or so – and has their guests laughing all afternoon and well into the evening. He doesn't raise his eyebrows when the detective declines a piece of his own birthday cake. Instead, he saves a few pieces in the fridge for later. John is the perfect host. But he doesn't give Sherlock a gift. He doesn't even wish him a happy birthday, if you don't count the singing, and Sherlock doesn't. The detective spends the whole ordeal waiting for John to offer him something, some words or a badly-wrapped package – because John _always_ wishes him a happy birthday and buys him something useless, _always_ – but the doctor doesn't do either, and by the time their guests finally leave Sherlock discovers that his heart has sunk like a rock to the pit of his stomach. He mulls this over as John sees Mrs Hudson downstairs. _Disappointment_. He's disappointed. This knowledge makes him want to scoff and wrinkle his nose in distaste, because he considers himself above such dull, ordinary feelings. But then, he's come to realise that he's highly susceptible to all kinds of feelings where John is concerned. Sherlock sits up, and smoothes out his suit sleeves. _Don't be so ridiculous_, he tells himself. _Don't be so mind-numbingly mundane. Birthdays are trivial. They mean boredom and a more than sufficient amount of humiliation_.

When John comes back upstairs the detective says nothing, but grumbles an affirmative to the question of whether or not they should order takeout for dinner. He moves to his desk and sits there, mostly silent, for the rest of the evening, pretending to be absorbed in case files and hating how his stomach flips in excitement every time John addresses him – and then twists _disappointedly_ when the words are not birthday-related. Sherlock works through dinner, though really he's just willing the annoying ache to go away. He's always been able to control his feelings, and if not control them then at least hide them well enough to prevent others from becoming aware. How else would he have survived the past five years with John Watson, _'I'm not gay'_ John Watson, as his flatmate? Sherlock resists the urge to sigh into a particularly gruesome crime scene photo.

It's getting late, and John is bustling about in the kitchen making tea when he calls out, "Sherlock, pass me the milk?" Sherlock looks up from his papers, frowning in frustration.  
"John, you can reach the fridge perfectly well from where you're standing – "  
"I _could_," the doctor interrupts, "if I didn't have my hands full." He holds up two mugs and teabags as if to prove his point, and whilst this hardly means his hands are full the detective is too annoyed and too fed up to argue. Huffing in irritation, Sherlock gets up and quickly covers the distance to the fridge, less than two feet from his flatmate, pulling open the door. Then he pauses, because the fridge is completely devoid of milk. His eyes quickly scan all the shelves and he even moves a few things around, eyebrows drawing together, but it's definitely not there. Closing the door, he turns and starts to say,  
"John, there isn't – " But a moment later his eyes land on the half-full bottle of semi-skimmed on the kitchen counter, and a moment after that he finds himself backed up against the fridge door, imprisoned on either side by two jumper-clad arms. The doctor is gazing up at him intensely, bright blue eyes seeming to burn right through him. He's so close Sherlock can feel the warmth radiating from his body. "John?" Sherlock's voice is reduced to a squeak, but he's too focused on the sudden shake of his knees and _how close John is_ to be horrified.  
"I haven't given you my present yet," the doctor says in a murmur, and now the soft wool of his cable-knit is pressing against Sherlock's purple silk shirt.  
"I – " The detective's voice catches and he clears his throat, swallowing, stomach doing full-on somersaults as John's eyes flicker over his face. "You know I think presents are pointless," he forces out, more loudly and clearly. "They are a waste of money and frankly I don't..." He trails off; John is watching him from under half-closed lids, and mutters,  
"Oh, shut up." And then the doctor kisses him.

He leans forward and presses his lips _warmstronginsistentsoft_ against Sherlock's, firmly _gentlyhardnothard_ enough to make the detective's brain short-circuit. Sherlock freezes for half a second. Then he melts, the continuous noise in his mind finally shocked into silence as his thin frame relaxes against John's, mouth beginning to move in ways he didn't know it could because he's never _actually_ kissed anyone before but _this_, _this_...and his fingers grab tightly onto wool and hold on as his knees give way but it doesn't matter because John is holding him up now pinning his body against the fridge with his own and he swipes the tip of his tongue over Sherlock's bottom lip and the detective gasps and his heart is racing and then John's tasting him and _oh, so this is why ordinary people like to kiss_.

That's when Sherlock Holmes decides that there is _one_ good thing about birthdays, after all.

They mean John.


End file.
